


the inherent romance of classical conditioning (or, the fine art of emotional recognition)

by pseudoanalytics



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Character Study, Domesticity, Emotional Constipation, Established Relationship, Hair-pulling, Hand & Finger Kink, Intercrural Sex, M/M, banter as foreplay, touch-starvation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:35:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22901806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pseudoanalytics/pseuds/pseudoanalytics
Summary: It'sstupid.Atsumu isn't a romantic, no matter how many times he's imagined laying Sakusa out andfinallyreally touching him.So there's no explanation for why Atsumu is constantly stuck thinking about brushing his fingertips against the meat of Sakusa's palms or the prominent tendons in his freaky wrists.There's no explanation for why doing dishes sets off a warm burn in his ribcage, or why when he smells disinfectant he inhales like he's walking past a bakery.Yer doin' this to me,he thinks furiously, as Sakusa derails his thoughts with kisses that come more and more frequently now.Yer conditionin' me, and I can't stop it.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 67
Kudos: 1906
Collections: Work's I've Finished, sakuatsu fics





	the inherent romance of classical conditioning (or, the fine art of emotional recognition)

**Author's Note:**

> this is NOT foot fetish fic. i know it's incredibly concerning that i'd even have to say this, but it's NOT.
> 
> there *is* probably some hand kink though

"Can you train a person?" Atsumu asks.

It's a non sequitur, but Osamu knows him too well to even glance up at the question. There's a long pause, and Atsumu almost wonders if his internet is cutting out and fucking with the video call.

"Hey," he snaps, tapping directly on his webcam. "I'm talkin' to you." He blows hard on the mic just to be extra obnoxious.

Osamu sticks shut the plastic wrapping of the onigiri in his hand. "I'm thinkin'. Hold on."

Atsumu taps his fingers with impatience, hoping the methodical bursts of noise will translate through Osamu's speakers. 

When the irritation finally builds up, Osamu glances at the screen. "Okay, what do you mean by 'train.' You talkin' like Pavlov's dogs or somethin'?"

"Who the fuck is Pavlov?"

For some reason, this irritates Osamu more than the noises did. "The guy who trained dogs to salivate every time he rang a bell. Classical conditionin'. That sorta thing."

"Fuckin' _excuse me_ for not going to uni." Atsumu thinks for a minute, weighing the idea in his mind. "Let's say yeah. Yeah, hypothetically, could ya train someone like this guy's dogs?"

"Sure. Prob'ly, to an extent. Why? You tryin' to make someone drool over ya? Good luck with that."

Atsumu slams the lid of his laptop shut. He seethes quietly for a couple minutes, then wrenches it back open to call Osamu again. The connection rings and rings, but no matter how many angry texts he sends, no one picks up.

* * *

The thing about Atsumu is that he has almost everything he's ever wanted. He's a professional volleyball player on a Division 1 team. He's even the starting setter. Every day he gets to control the great Bokuto Koutarou. And Japan's prodigal son, Hinata Shouyou, spikes his tosses without question. Perhaps most impressively, he's managed to trick one Sakusa Kiyoomi into actually _dating_ his ass.

He has the world in his hands, and yet…

If there is one thing he knows about himself, it's that he's got a bad attitude. So even now, with everything coming up Atsumu, he has a hunger for more.

Five months ago, he would have sworn on his grandmother's urn that Sakusa was completely celibate. He would have expected any sort of request for intercourse to be batted away without a second thought. At best, Atsumu might get a monotone "ew," and at worst, he might get dark, critical eyes sweeping up and down his body with a condescending scoff of rejection. He could picture Sakusa sticking his bare hand in a public toilet before he could even conceptualize the idea of getting him into bed.

And it's a testament to Atsumu's horrible, disgusting, embarrassing crush on the guy that he didn't even care. Sure, he'd fantasized about it. Sue him. He's young and he's dating the second hottest guy in the league (he still rates himself the first). After the fiasco that was Atsumu trying to hold Sakusa's hand, he wasn't even going to suggest it.

But then the wildest thing had happened.

They were sitting on the couch in Sakusa's apartment, pretending to watch tv. Atsumu was in his usual seat, pressed up against one arm rest, and Sakusa was curled up by the other, maintaining that careful one-meter gap. That was when something bumped Atsumu's foot.

He'd snuck a peek around his own knee, which was hiked up toward his chest, until he saw, strangely enough, Sakusa's foot touching his own. There were no socks involved. Just Atsumu's foot, still cool from his shower, and Sakusa's freaky, bony toes, inching along the top of it.

Atsumu had once joked, "There musta been a surplus of fingers in the human-makin' factory, 'cause you got an extra set on your feet, Omi-kun!" It hadn't gotten any laughs then, and just remembering that silence makes him kinda want to die, but he still stands behind the sentiment.

And there they were. In all their glory. Creeping up Atsumu's ankle, to his calf, to his thigh… When Sakusa reached his stomach, Atsumu couldn't stop the jump his abs gave. For a moment, he thought that might shake Sakusa off, but instead the rogue foot just kept going. It slid across his chest, almost reverently, like a normal fucking person might do with their hand while they kissed you, and not like Sakusa was doing with his literal _foot_ while he slouched lower and kept his eyes glued on the tv.

For a couple minutes, Atsumu just let it happen. It was more contact than they'd really had over the entire first month of their relationship. Then the toes reached his neck and pressed on his jaw, tilting his head back, and even though he wasn't the germaphobe or hypochondriac in the relationship, and even though Sakusa was the one person he trusted to have clean feet, it was a little odd. So he opened his mouth to protest. He can't even remember what he was going to say, but the moment a sound left him, the foot was gone, and Sakusa was sitting so straight-backed and prim that it was impossible to prove he'd been touching Atsumu just a millisecond before.

Atsumu doesn't know what really happened next. He'd ended up leaving shortly after, possibly because Sakusa said he was tired but more likely because he just got up and headed to his room and Atsumu got the hint. Either way, he does remember that was the moment he first wondered if Sakusa maybe _did_ feel the same urges that he did. That he _does._ And that he has been _obsessing_ over ever since he realized that some sort of sex might be on the table after all.

The next time it happened, Atsumu kept his damn mouth shut. He knows he's dumb, but he's not totally _braindead_. So he didn't make a peep and just let Sakusa do his thing with his terrifying finger-toes until reality stretched long and syrupy and the show on tv cycled to the next asinine program. Then Sakusa had let out a soft breath, barely anything at all. Atsumu had glanced over at him and gotten the barest glimpse of his face, relaxed yet focused, and that had been it again.

By the fifth time, Atsumu was a veritable pro. He kept his eyes closed. He didn't say a word. Hell, he even tried to measure his breathing. And that was the first time he got off in the presence of Sakusa Kiyoomi. At the time, it had been so, so satisfying, but after the fact, he was filled with a horrible, gut-wrenching shame because he had no fucking idea if Sakusa had gotten anything out of it too.

Cut to now, four months later, and Atsumu is starting to wonder exactly what the fuck is going on. He's been granted the miracle of multiple orgasms courtesy of his boyfriend, so he has no right to grumble. This is probably Sakusa's version of a thriving sex life, and hell, if it means putting up with his inability to touch Atsumu with his hands like a conventional human, then who is he to complain? Besides, the… symptoms, so to speak, are such small things that he really shouldn't waste energy caring about them.

The first time he noticed one was when he was jerking off at home alone, watching porn on his laptop. Or at least, he was trying to. Because about fifteen seconds in, he realized his eyes had shut, which really wasn't making the whole _watching_ aspect very easy.

Then there was the time he'd gotten off in the shower. He almost passed out and brained himself on the tile floor because he'd been holding his breath. The acoustics of the bathroom amplified every sound, so to avoid so much of his own airy puffing, he'd deprived his brain of enough oxygen to make his head spin.

"Careful," Osamu would've said if he'd ever heard. "You'll kill yer last brain cell like that."

But the one thing that really freaks Atsumu out is his new hair-trigger dick whenever he so much as glimpses Sakusa's bony feet. And while he believes himself to have a healthy amount of pride, he doesn't think he could handle his teammates seeing him pop a boner when Sakusa walks out of the gym showers in his stupid flip-flop slippers that protect him from athletes' foot or whatever the fuck else might be breeding on the dirty floor.

Which brings him to his current concern. Can you train a person to override their own instincts? Is Sakusa turning him into a silent, motionless sexual footstool? He _really_ doesn't want that.

So what's a guy supposed to do? _Talk_ to his boyfriend? That's the most ridiculous idea he's ever had, and the worst part is how every part of him screams _not_ to mention sex stuff out-loud, because that's the kind of thing you do when you _don't_ want Sakusa to touch you for another three weeks. Atsumu doesn't know what he's going to try, but it certainly won't include asking him about it.

* * *

"Do ya like feet or somethin'?" The minute the words leave his mouth, he regrets it. Fuck. _Fuck._ He wasn't going to bring it up, let alone like _that._

The glare Sakusa levels at him is withering. They're getting into Sakusa's car, the one he bought specifically so he wouldn't have to take the train anymore.

Atsumu thinks he should have waited until they were on the road to ask. Until they leave the parking lot, there's always the chance that he'll get kicked out and stranded, though, knowing how Sakusa drives, maybe he won't be much safer when the vehicle is in motion.

"I'm just askin'," he continues, a glutton for punishment. "I can't help but notice the way you only touch me with yer feet when we—"

"I can stop," Sakusa says. There's a simmering darkness in the words that would frighten a lesser man than Atsumu.

"Nah. I don't want _that._ I'm tryin' to figure out what it is that makes you tick. Is it a dirt thing? You can't touch me with yer clean hands, but you can with yer feet?"

Sakusa's reply is to turn on the ignition. He mashes his foot on the gas so hard that the tires squeal, and then Atsumu is stuck riding like he always is: gripping for dear life to the handle over the door while plastering on the closest thing to a real, casual smile that he can manage.

For a guy who seems certain he'll die from a mysterious viral infection or incurable fungal poisoning, Sakusa drives like a man possessed. He drives like he owns the road and everyone else is just inconveniencing him by using it. Merging is a competition, and Sakusa plans to win it, and he hits the gas like he hits Atsumu's sets. At top-speed and with all of his strength.

Atsumu gargles a startled yelp as they turn right in front of another driver. He's close enough to see the Indiglo display of the man's watch as he hits the horn, and the guy can probably see the matching fear in Atsumu's eyes as they skid past. He half expects to feel the clunk of the other two wheels touching back down again.

"Do ya hafta do that?!" Atsumu shouts furiously after his brain comprehends that yes, he is still alive.

"Stop complaining over nothing. We had plenty of space."

A half-thought-up jibe about Sakusa applying his sense of personal space to his driving floats into Atsumu's mind, but the much lamer, "You missed yer calling as a stunt driver, Omi-Omi," comes out first.

Sakusa huffs a little "heh," which is so freaking unfair. The only times Atsumu can get a reaction out of him are when Atsumu's busy trying to survive or when he accidentally insults himself. So many good jokes, just _wasted_ on this guy.

They finally pull up to Sakusa's apartment complex, and when he swings into his parking space and hits the brakes, Atsumu jerks forward so hard that his seatbelt locks.

"We're here," says Sakusa dryly, because his sense of humor is pretty fucking twisted. He releases the pedal from where he had it flat on the floor. Atsumu says a quick prayer for his brake pads.

When he tries to get out, Sakusa hits the door lock no less than three times before letting him finally wrench it open, and that's when Atsumu discovers a fourth side effect of Sakusa's dog conditioning or whatever Osamu called it. Apparently Sakusa being a difficult asshole gets him pretty damn horny.

Which is why, when they finally get to the part of the night where they get handsy — sorta — on the couch, Atsumu keeps his questions to himself.

* * *

Atsumu bides his time. He's not a patient person, but mistiming this will lead to an intolerable dry spell, so he's able to summon the slightest bit of tact. 

"Are you ever gonna let me touch ya back?" he asks as he helps Sakusa unload the dishwasher, because that's the sort of thing Miya Atsumu does these days. He unloads the dishwasher with his boyfriend. He wears surgical-grade, nitrile gloves and a face mask so he won't spit, and he lifts hot dishes off the rack so Sakusa can rewash them in the sink, just to get any additional bacteria off or something.

"By definition, if I'm touching you, you're also touching me."

"Smartass. I said touch ya _back_. That's different." Atsumu struggles with himself. He can't ask for too much too quickly. "At least a kiss would be nice."

"Hmm," Sakusa hums. He shakes off a plate and wipes it down with one of his antimicrobial towels, then props it with the rest of the finished dishes where they rest on the freshly cleaned countertop.

A part of Atsumu wants to scream and break a dish like he would with Osamu. _Anything_ to provoke a reaction. He's getting increasingly frustrated, and a frustrated Atsumu is just a ticking time bomb of assholery.

He passes the final bowl to Sakusa, then starts wiping down the dishwasher to make sure it's completely dry. By the time he shuts the door, Sakusa has put everything away already. He takes his gloves off carefully and drops them into the trash bag before gesturing for Atsumu to do the same.

Just before Atsumu can pitch a fit over the dark swirl of emotions in his chest, Sakusa steps into his space, closer than he can ever remember happening before. Sakusa's eyes promise pain and suffering, and the set of his mouth, as he pulls his mask down, emits an unspeakable rage. But then up comes a set of bony fingers that match the equally bony toes Atsumu is too familiar with. They pinch the fabric of his mask and tug it under his chin.

And when Sakusa leans down, eyes open and brows drawn, Atsumu squeezes his own eyes shut and holds his breath. It's the strangest kiss he's ever had. Nothing else makes contact, just Sakusa's dry but soft lips against his slightly chapped ones. There's a light pressure, and then a sudden increase. Atsumu's mouth drops open, like it would for anyone else kissing him that insistently. Miraculously, Sakusa doesn't startle and retreat.

There's the barest touch of a wet tongue to Atsumu's bottom lip, and his head is getting foggy again, starved for oxygen, but Sakusa is dipping his tongue further, tapping Atsumu's like he's trying to get used to the sensation and the heat. And just before Atsumu is afraid he'll gasp for air and ruin everything, Sakusa puffs a breath across his face first. Then he jerks back and away, and Atsumu's eyes fly open as his lungs reinflate. He's ended up clutching the counter behind him in a death-grip, and it's making his knuckles hurt.

Sakusa yanks his mask back up, but it doesn't cover the slight color in his cheeks.

Atsumu revels in it. That hint of a blush. It's so, so small, but it's proof that Sakusa Kiyoomi lost just a hint of his composure. Just the smallest bit of his control. And best of all, it's a reaction that shows Atsumu has _some_ sort of effect on the guy.

He could ask again, about the foot thing and the touching thing, but his brain is dried up and rattling audibly inside his skull.

Sakusa locks eyes with him, and something passes between them that sends shivers down his spine.

He'll ask later.

* * *

It's _stupid._ Atsumu isn't a romantic, no matter how many times he's imagined laying Sakusa out and finally really _touching him_. Not even in a purely sexual way! He swears! He just wants to feel the soft, tangible sensation of skin, and he wants to shower Sakusa in attention and make him feel _good._ He wants to iron out that little wrinkle that sits nearly permanently between his eyebrows. He wants to see him _react._

Atsumu thrives off reactions.

Osamu's given him the pleasure of twenty-three years of reactions. He doesn't really know what to do without them. His first high school crush, the all-encompassing kind that went beyond just physical attraction, was Kita. Totally embarrassing, but Osamu briefly crushed on him too, so neither of them can use it as blackmail. And now, Atsumu can actually admit what drew his attention. Kita never responded to his antics.

It left him starving for it. It raised the intensity of his ridiculous behavior over and over until finally Kita took him aside and told him it was unacceptable, even for him. Atsumu stayed in bed all weekend, agonizing over the humiliation, but Osamu hadn't mocked him too badly. Hell, maybe he got chewed out too.

The whole thing was the worst possible outcome, but it _was_ a reaction. So Atsumu was satiated, and then Kita graduated and he was set free of the whole ordeal.

So why doesn't Sakusa feel like that?

When Sakusa embarrasses him, he still wants to hurl himself out a window, but then that _feeling_ just comes rushing back in. On the rare occasions when Atsumu's provocations get a vein to tick in Sakusa's temple, it feels like a momentary victory but doesn't tame the hunger in his chest.

And none of this provides any explanation for why Atsumu's started thinking about touching Sakusa vicariously through the volleyball. For why he's stuck thinking about his own fingertips brushing against the meat of Sakusa's powerful palms or the prominent tendons in Sakusa's freaky wrists just like his sets do.

It can't explain why doing dishes sets off a warm burn in his ribcage, or why when he smells disinfectant he inhales like he's walking past a bakery, or why the snapping sound of latex doesn't circulate blood to his dick but to his cheeks.

 _Yer doin' this to me,_ he thinks furiously, as Sakusa derails his thoughts with kisses that come more and more frequently now. _Yer conditionin' me, and I can't stop it._

Sakusa always pulls away when his breathing gets just a little faster, but he'll also stop if Atsumu tries to take over. Reacting to what Sakusa is doing is fine, apparently, but if Atsumu so much as considers controlling the kiss, it's game over.

That's what finally gives him the idea, even as Sakusa uses kisses to avoid questions and dodge the topic of their sex life.

So now Atsumu has to ask. And he will! But not this time, when his mind is still hazy over the way Sakusa's mask drags against his chin as they kiss deeper. Next time though. Next time for sure.

* * *

The next time, Sakusa is wearing gloves again. And when they're mid-kiss, he reaches up and tilts Atsumu's jaw with the tips of his latex-covered fingers. Atsumu can feel the way they shake slightly. Fear? Nerves? Arousal? He can't open his eyes to check. They feel soldered shut, all too aware of what will happen if he gets caught with them open.

Are Sakusa's eyes open?

Does he ever look at Atsumu? Take him in?

He _does_ find him attractive, right? That's why you date someone. Because they're hot, and you maybe don't mind their company?

Atsumu thinks Sakusa is hot, though that's not really why he's dating him. There _is_ a certain allure to the ropey muscles that line Sakusa's arms and legs. All that skin on parade mid-match, immediately swallowed back up by a sport jacket and track pants when they're off the court. There's the way his hair falls over his face in obnoxious curls. The fucker doesn't even use hair product. It's just _like that_. He's a wash-n-wear kind of guy because "gel clogs the pores of your scalp," and Sakusa isn't going to get an infection from buildup or anything.

Atsumu doubts he'll ever figure him out.

And that's closer to the _actual_ reason he wants to date him.

Because he's so fucking frustrating all of the damn time, like a Rubik's cube that Atsumu has to solve in the dark. But he wants to. He doesn't have the patience to wait for anything in life, but something is telling him that he'll take as long as he's allowed to puzzle out the tangled mess that is Sakusa Kiyoomi and he'll enjoy every second of it.

He just wishes he knew what any of this meant. Why does he feel like this? What does it all mean?

Atsumu has no clue. It makes no sense.

So instead it just pisses him off.

* * *

Sakusa's foot taps his own.

Atsumu's dick starts its psychologically-fucked dog act.

But Atsumu is his own damn man, and he's done letting Sakusa melt his mind into an endless pool of sweat when all he wants is to return the favor.

He sits up. The foot vanishes. A mental clock starts counting down in Atsumu's head. "Time Until Next Touch," it reads. "3 weeks. Nice going, idiot."

It'll be worth it.

"Hey, Omi-Omi," he croons, because if he's going to be grownup enough to talk out his problems, he sure as hell won't be mature about it. "It's the control, isn't it."

Sakusa looks at him like he's just announced he's eloping with the Adlers' mascot. "What."

"The kissing. The…" he hesitates. "The foot thing. Actually, all of it. The stupid slippers!"

Sakusa's eyebrows climb in an interesting combination of confusion and superiority.

"The dishes! And the gloves! Yer face masks! Everything!" Atsumu is building steam. He stands up off the couch, and Sakusa does the same. Atsumu has never hated those extra centimeters so much in his life. "You got some kinda thing where you gotta be in charge all the time. You micromanage every aspect of yer life, and it freaks you out when ya can't hold it in!"

Sakusa tips his head, brows still pinched. "Who are you? A therapist?"

"I'm yer _boyfriend,_ ya _bastard,_ " Atsumu snaps. "I just wanna make _you_ feel good for a change." He pauses and mulls it over, using Sakusa's stunned silence to think. "Or at least tell me if it'll never be on the table. That's fine. I'll deal with it. But I can't keep livin' in this limbo, wonderin' if you'll ever let me just _touch_ you."

Sakusa's breathing has picked up a bit. Atsumu can tell it's not a freakout. It's just a pre-freakout freakout. Much more manageable. Sakusa is his boyfriend, but he was his spiker first. And Atsumu can tell when he's too worn out to continue and when he's still got some energy in him. This is the latter. He holds his ground.

"This is surprisingly magnanimous of you, Miya," Sakusa snaps. His volume doesn't rise, but his venom does. A defense mechanism. Atsumu feels like he can see right through him, better than usual. "I'd expect you to be happy with this turn of events. All the focus is on you, isn't it?"

"So, what? You want me to be selfish? Then shut the fuck up, because this _is._ This is the most selfish I've ever been in my damn life." He's never had a way with words, though he wishes he did. He'd almost trade some of his good looks for the ability to communicate right now. Maybe. "Can ya blame a guy for wantin' to mess his boyfriend up a bit? To get to see he's havin' some fun too for once? For wantin' to touch him with somethin' _besides_ a foot?"

Sakusa's eyes flick away and then back. "I'm working on it," he says, sounding like he's delivering the death penalty instead.

"Yeah. Yeah, you are," Atsumu admits, because frankly he's still shocked that he's kissing the guy and grinding to get off against him when half a year ago Sakusa wouldn't even let him touch the back of his jersey. "Just… Can we try it, just once? I'll go slow. I won't do anythin' you don't approve. You can trust me, ya know." _You trust me in a game,_ he thinks. _You trust my sets. You used to overanalyze every single one, but now when I put the ball up, ya come runnin' in and just… blast off._

The speed of Sakusa's chest starts to tip toward the cornered animal end of the scale, but he takes a deep centering breath and irons himself out. "Of course I trust you." It's hard to believe with a tone like that, but Sakusa doesn't mince words so Atsumu takes it at face value. They'd both prefer to be pulling teeth over talking like this, standing at opposite ends of Sakusa's living room. Add a tumbleweed and a pair of pistols, and Atsumu would be ready for a showdown, a duel to the death.

Sakusa's eyes are narrowed into slits. Atsumu can feel his own lip curled and bared in a near snarl.

"I trust _you_ ," Sakusa grits out again. This time there are unspoken words dangling behind it. _I don't trust myself._

It strikes Atsumu for the first time that Sakusa is not the type to stick around if he's unhappy. He's not with Atsumu for any nefarious reason. There's something there that makes him stay, and maybe, just maybe, it's the same sickening ball of indescribable emotion that makes Atsumu's head spin with thoughts of isopropyl alcohol and little sleeves for covering the tip of the thermometer.

He remembers the tap of a foot that led to him coming in his pants like a teenager. He remembers the chaste touch of lips that led to a tongue lapping against the roof of his mouth.

"So, yer afraid of yerself." It's not a question, and as such, Sakusa doesn't answer.

But his fists clench and release once, and his jaw sets visibly.

If Atsumu were a romantic person, he might say something like, "It's okay to let go. I'll catch you." Or if he were a comforting person, he might say, "It'll be alright. I won't push you." And if he had even a single nice bone in his body, he could say, "It's fine if you're nervous. I am too."

But in his heart, he's an asshole, but then again, so is Sakusa, and that's why he knows he'll understand. "I guess ya can't handle it," he snaps. "This is you tappin' out?"

And Sakusa, being a beautiful, confusing, competitive bastard, takes the gnarled olive branch as the pride-saver that it is. "Fine. You're on, Miya." Meaning, _okay. I'll trust us both._

"Don't worry. I'll take it slow." Atsumu says it low and smarmy, letting condescension drip from his words to hide the fact that he means it as reassurance.

"I do _not_ have enough energy for your antics tonight," Sakusa scoffs.

"We have this Saturday off."

There's a pause while Sakusa analyzes and breaks that down. "Yes. That'll work."

Atsumu wonders if it counts as communicating if it's done entirely in subtext and unvoiced implications. They both sit down on the couch again, and Sakusa bumps the volume and keeps all his long limbs decidedly to himself.

That's fine with Atsumu. In his head, the fictional countdown updates. "Time Until Next Touch: 3 days remaining."

* * *

It's Friday when Sakusa approaches him after practice. He slaps over in his stupid slippers, and his hair is hidden up in a tilted bundle of towel perched on his head. Otherwise, he's in clean, dry clothes, while Atsumu and the others are just now making it to the showers.

"We need to talk," he says. Then he walks away like those aren't the four most dreaded words for anyone in a relationship. _Slap, slap. Slap, slap._ The slippers mock Atsumu as he goes.

He showers and dresses on autopilot, miraculously tuning out Hinata's excited babbling with Bokuto. This must be what it feels like to walk to the gallows. He almost wants to say goodbye to the others before he leaves.

It can't be that bad. Breaking up. He's done it before and he's bounced back just fine. Granted, he's always been the one _doing_ the breaking up part, but still. This was almost inevitable, really. At some point they were bound to piss each other off enough to get here, so he shouldn't feel like this. There are other good-looking people out there, and Atsumu's hot enough to pull in at least a couple of options by noon tomorrow, but he strangely doesn't _want_ to do that. He kinda wants to go back to his shitty apartment and video call his uglier twin and consume mass amounts of food that definitely aren't on the recommended team diet.

Dating is about finding someone who's hot, and who doesn't mind your company. He's always believed that.

Finding someone hot isn't an issue, and frankly, Sakusa has always seemed _very much_ to mind Atsumu's company, he just hangs around him anyway.

Why does it seem different this time? It all keeps returning to that boiling emotion inside of him. The one that makes him want to punch a hole through something or run vertically up a wall. The one that makes him feel too warm under his skin. It's almost a derivative of how he feels when he thinks about Osamu. There's a tense spirit of competition there, alongside the camaraderie and sync that only twins can maintain. But he knows what that one means, and it's just telling him that Osamu is family.

Atsumu stoops to grab his bag.

He walks out to the parking lot.

Sakusa is already in his car, probably to avoid being outside with damp hair.

When Atsumu gets in, the air is heavy with tension. He thinks of humidity and thunderstorms and the smell of wet pavement.

"I've been thinking," Sakusa says, straight to the point as always. "Why am I the only one putting myself out there." He never adds a lilting inflection to the ends of his questions. They come out either monotone or confrontational. This one is fortunately the former.

"What?" asks Atsumu, tiredly. He's just ready to get this over with.

"I'm letting you… run things tomorrow. As you can imagine, I have some reservations." Sakusa must look over at him, but in the dark vehicle, his heavy-lidded eyes are hidden in shadow. "I want something in return."

Atsumu's brain fragmented at the word "tomorrow." "We aren't breakin' up?" He manages to keep it light and casual despite the weight of the question.

Sakusa shifts noticeably now. He leans back, as if regarding Atsumu in the light from the streetlamps. "No."

A rush of air wheezes out of Atsumu unbidden, and he buries his face in his hands, screeching, "Then what the hell were ya doin' saying somethin' like 'we needa talk' for? I thought you were about to dump me, and I didn't even know what I'd done this time!"

"Miya, if we break up, I can promise that you will know _exactly_ what you did." It's probably meant to be pissy, by implying that Atsumu would be the one at fault, but he's stuck again, ruminating on a single word, and this time that word is "if." _If_ we break up. _If._

Atsumu balls his fists against his cheekbones and takes a couple deep breaths.

"Now, are you done being dramatic so we can talk? You aren't coming over tonight, and I want to leave soon."

"Are you at least givin' me a ride?"

"No." Sakusa pauses. "I'll take you to the train."

Atsumu rolls his eyes back, well aware it might not be visible but relying on Sakusa's knowledge of him to convey the message anyway. "Thanks. Now what _did_ ya wanna say?"

Sakusa closes his hands around his steering wheel like he needs it for support. The covering creaks as he squeezes it. "I want equal compensation."

"Isn't that what this is about?"

"Not like that. I mean—" His fingers scrabble down between their seats, where a package of disinfectant wipes usually sits, but Atsumu remembers seeing him use the last one on Wednesday, so he pops the glove compartment and passes over the one from there instead. Sakusa doesn't make contact with him as he takes it. He doesn't thank him either, just peels out a wipe and starts meticulously cleaning the wheel that only he ever touches. "This isn't the most comfortable for me, and I don't think it should be for you either."

Atsumu wants to grumble back at him, but despite the poor phrasing, he kinda gets the idea. If one of them is going to be tiptoeing out of their comfort zone, then they might as well both go for it. Safety in numbers. "Whaddya have in mind, Omi-kun?"

"Say something nice. Right now."

"What?"

"Say something nice."

"About you?"

" _Yes,_ about me." Sakusa catches the wipe on his cruise control and tears it.

"Yer a damn good spiker, thanks in part to me."

"Ok. Now try again. Say something nice that isn't _also_ stroking your massive ego."

Atsumu huffs a sigh and blows his damp bangs out of his face a bit. "Yer very clean."

"You suck at this."

"Fuck off."

"Eat shit."

They sit in silence. Atsumu has had a lifetime as a twin to exercise his stubborn streak, but Sakusa is the only other person who can give him a run for his money.

"I'll work on it," Atsumu finally concedes.

"Good. Every time I need a break, you pay up. Understand?"

"Ya know, here I thought that _I_ was supposed to be the one in charge—"

"I said, do you _understand,_ Miya." And that's when Atsumu realizes that this isn't all just a joke to him. This is completely serious, as serious as the thing he has about germs and as serious as he is about volleyball. There's more to this than just winning free compliments and niceties from Atsumu. It's about him taking one small fraction of control he isn't willing to relinquish and using it to request even ground. Sakusa's going into this with one arm tied behind his back, and he'll be damned if Atsumu doesn't tie his own up too.

"Readin' ya loud and clear."

Sakusa nods and balls up the wipe in his hands. He's shredded it into little scraps and pieces.

"Tomorrow then?" Atsumu asks, one last time. "We're really doin' this?"

"Tomorrow."

Then someone bangs twice on the trunk. Sakusa startles so badly that he hits his head on the roof, which Atsumu would have made fun of him for if he hadn't knocked his own skull on the window next to him.

"Hey!" Bokuto hollers through the glass. "Is your battery good? Need a jump?"

Sakusa just twists his key and revs his engine in response. And Bokuto, possessing some form of a survival instinct, gets the hell out of his way.

* * *

On Saturday, Atsumu splurges a little and dishes money for a ride-share service. Sakusa will make him shower upon arrival anyway, but he figures it might ease his worries a _bit_ if he knows Atsumu wasn't just on the public train.

"Heading anywhere fun?" asks the nice woman who picks him up. She must not recognize him, which is probably good.

"Uh, yeah. Seeing a… friend."

"Ooh, very nice." She adjusts her mirror and steers out onto the road. "Lovely way to spend a Saturday."

Atsumu spends the rest of the ride picking at his bundle of clean clothes and imagining what would happen if he admitted he was on his way to possibly have sex with his germaphobe boyfriend for the first time ever. When she drops him off, he tips her a little extra just for considering it.

Sakusa buzzes him into the complex almost instantaneously, which has Atsumu curious if he was waiting by the button the whole time. He jogs up the stairs effortlessly and knocks on Sakusa's door.

 _What's he gonna look like?_ he wonders, even though it's not like he's going to be greeted by Sakusa in lingerie or anything. Hell, he can't even picture it. Sure enough, when the door swings open, Sakusa is just wearing a face mask, his team jacket, and a pair of blindingly yellow track pants.

"Shower," he commands by way of greeting.

"Hiya. I took a ride-share instead of the train. Figured I'd be a little less germy that way."

"Your towel is on the rack." It's terse and rude, even for Sakusa, which means he's definitely pretty nervous.

"Bossy, bossy, Omi-Omi," sing-songs Atsumu as he kicks his shoes off and tiptoes across the floor. He half-expects Sakusa to follow his steps with a mop. It's kinda flattering to see this nervous side of Sakusa. Proof that he genuinely wants to overcome his own mental barriers. It's not until Atsumu is rinsing the soap off that he starts to feel the flutter of nerves in his stomach too. _Fuck._ Is this really happening?

He towels his hair four times to draw out the process a little more. Is Sakusa really going to let him touch him? How will he want to be touched? How does he touch himself to make himself feel good? _Does_ he touch himself? Or does he just whack-and-wash, with no unnecessary foreplay?

Atsumu used to be a pretty simple guy. He'd make sure Osamu was out, pull up some porn, and go to town. Now, something's been rewired in his brain, because all he needs to do is shut his eyes and maybe touch a single fingertip to his lips.

He puts on the extra t-shirt and sweats he'd brought along, and when he finishes redressing and opens the bathroom door, Sakusa immediately turns off the tv and gets up off his couch.

"Hey, hey," Atsumu says. "No need to rush. We can just sit for a while." He tries to make it sound like it's for Sakusa's benefit, and not so he can swallow the weird lump of fear that's sitting in his throat. He's not usually one for stage fright, and performance anxiety is _not_ going to be a problem if he's allowed to so much as feel hand-to-hand contact, but he's all too aware of the trust on the line right now. And Atsumu can't lie. He's never been the delicate type. He used to accidentally crack raw eggs by squeezing them too hard, and he _is_ the one who broke his mother's sugar bowl, even though he'll always blame it on Osamu. But you can grab a new egg and you can buy a new sugar bowl.

There's only one Sakusa Kiyoomi.

The urge to punch a wall is back, and Atsumu covertly twists the skin of his arm between his knuckles to ground himself through the swell of whatever that emotion is.

Sakusa reaches up and pulls off his mask. His lips are pale from being stretched thin in lack of amusement. "I haven't waited three days to watch daytime talk shows with you," he hisses.

And damn, when he puts it like that, he almost sounds half as excited as Atsumu's been.

Despite all the times he's visited, Atsumu has never been in Sakusa's bedroom. He's seen inside, of course, usually just while he's walking by or when he's mindlessly following Sakusa as he fetches one of the hundred blankets he keeps on his bed. The guy runs cold, like a reptile, and Atsumu wants to know if he _feels_ cool to the touch too.

Atsumu freezes at the threshold, barely believing he's allowed to pass. The blankets are gone, folded primly on the desk with Sakusa's comforter. The bed is stripped down to just the fitted sheet. It's weirdly stark, just like the rest of Sakusa's place, and Atsumu finds he isn't deterred a bit. Also? He's starting to feel horny as fuck, so there are a lot of weird places he'd be willing to do this in, almost all of which would be immediately vetoed by Sakusa.

"I love what you've done with the place," he drawls sarcastically. His voice comes out thicker than he expected though, and Sakusa shoots him a look before awkwardly lying down on his bed. He's on his back. Staring at the ceiling.

Atsumu can't help himself. He's an asshole at heart.

He loses his shit.

"Ya look like a human offering!" he howls, tears actually springing to his eyes.

Sakusa props up on his elbows and glares. It's not even a self-conscious glare. It's just impatient and pissed.

"The jacket… Yer arms at yer sides… It's funnier than any joke I've ever told!"

"Yes, it is," Sakusa says primly. "Because your jokes aren't funny at all. Get over here."

"Lose the jacket first."

Sakusa rolls his eyes with far too much exaggeration. He slides the zipper all the way down, revealing a plain shirt in the same horrible yellow as his pants. Then he freezes. He looks up. "After you."

"I'm not wearin' a jacket."

"No, not that." Sakusa's mouth flattens again.

Right.

Atsumu's spent the last twelve hours trying to think up some vaguely romantic things to say to earn his place here. The problem is, he's just absolutely, positively _not_ the romantic type. He's tried and tried to find something lovey-dovey and properly humiliating to say, but nothing comes to mind. So he does what he's good at and just plays it by ear.

"It's not that I can't find any nice things about ya," he starts. "I just can't phrase it in a way that's… kind enough."

Sakusa zips his jacket back up. "I suggest you try."

"You're so fuckin' annoying, is what you are," Atsumu grits out. "Ya piss me off, constantly."

Sakusa looks like he's about ten seconds from standing up and calling it, but Atsumu just can't coax a single nicety out of his throat. Furious, he taps into the wall-punching feeling. That bright anger that seems both too easy and too hard to channel into words.

"I can't say _anything_ without you bitin' my head off. Everything's a competition, and you play a zero-sum game so only one of us can ever win. You're obsessed with takin' control of any situation yer in, and half the time it isn't even the germ thing." He's shocked Sakusa hasn't left the room yet. "I don't give a shit about the germ thing! I mean, I do, but I don't _mind._ It's fuckin' weird, but yer fuckin' _weirder,_ and I don't care if you want me to wear full-body protective wear, so long as I can finally have permission to knock that blank expression off yer face!" His accent warbles thickly, in and out, and the next thing he wants to say actually tries to choke him.

He fights it. It's embarrassing. And it's throwing every alarm bell in his brain that he's going to want to crumple in the corner in shame once he says it. If Sakusa was really trying to get him to tie his arm behind his back too, it's about to work—

Wait.

Maybe this isn't that kind of competition after all. Maybe it's more like a three-legged race, where they're both losing a leg, but they're reliant on each other. Maybe this sick sensation of stripping yourself bare is what Sakusa feels when Atsumu asks to touch him. And maybe if he can do _this,_ it'll help Sakusa brave the fear too.

He can't help but think that this epiphany burnt out the last braincell Osamu said he has.

"What I'm tryna say is, I like all that about ya. Prickly bastard tendencies and all. It makes me feel like I gotta punch somethin' 'cause I just can't handle it."

Somewhere in there, he said something right, because Sakusa unzips his jacket again, and this time he reaches out and neatly drapes it on the back of his chair. The words flow out easier now, like they were all trapped and jumbled in Atsumu's head, and now that he's leeched a bit of the pressure, his only option is to run his mouth like normal.

"When I asked ya for this, I wasn't thinkin' with my dick."

"Oh, good." Sakusa deadpans. He's fiddling with the cuffs of his long-sleeve.

"Shaddup. I'm sayin' it's about more than just that."

"So, you were thinking at least a _little_ with your dick then."

Atsumu watches in absolute shock and awe as Sakusa crosses his arms and pulls his shirt up, up, up, and off entirely. There's so much skin on display that he can't even crack a joke about Sakusa's awkward tanlines. "Yeah… A little…" he croaks in a daze.

Sakusa's eyebrows crinkle funny on his forehead. "Keep going," he commands, clearly feeling uncomfortable again with the way Atsumu is staring.

"Uh… Yeah. Uh…"

"You were saying it was more than thinking with your dick."

"Right, right. I was gettin' there." Atsumu wrestles his own shirt off, figuring he might as well match the pace. Sakusa doesn't really look at him, which, truthfully, is a bit of a pride crusher. "I know what you've been doin' to me. The dog psychology thing."

Sakusa _does_ look at him now. But it's with clear, derisive confusion.

"You've been usin' me as some kinda fucked up experiment. Training me to obey all yer weird little commands." He racks his brain for terminology, but it's getting harder and harder because Sakusa's creepy knuckles are tracing over the waistband of his track pants in a hypnotic fashion. Or maybe that's just from the highlighter yellow. "Positive reinforcement or whatever."

"I have no clue what the fuck you're talking about." It actually seems like Sakusa means it too.

"You were conditionin' me to only get off when my eyes are closed! Or if I hold my breath and almost pass out! And… and you've been tryin' to trick me into like, a _foot fetish_ or somethin'!"

Sakusa actually looks thrown off guard. He's bypassed "what the fuck" territory and is squarely planted in the "I'm about to call the hospital" zone. But instead of diving for his cell phone, Sakusa just spits out, "I am _not_ trying to give you a _foot fetish_."

"Ya clearly are!"

"It's just because it felt more impersonal than my _hands,_ you idiot."

"Well, it's gross, and fuckin' disgusting!"

"You're saying that to _me?_ " 

Atsumu opens his mouth to counter, but at some point he's actually crossed the room, and now he's standing disturbingly close to a shirtless Sakusa. He could reach out and— 

Very, very slowly. More gently than any toss he's ever set. Atsumu lifts his hand and extends it toward Sakusa's shoulder. It seems like fairly neutral territory, but the moment his fingers make contact, Sakusa jerks like he's been burned and hisses like an angry snake.

"I think you've conditioned me so I can only ever care about you." Atsumu blurts. "'Cause somethin' changed, and I don't think I remember how to date anyone else." There it is. That searing pain in his gut when he realizes he's said something mind-numbingly stupid. The kind of thing he'll replay in his head at night, over and over, until he feels like he needs to hurl just to exorcise it.

But then Sakusa leans his shoulder against Atsumu's hand. Not gingerly, but hard. Hard enough that he has to push back or risk letting Sakusa topple.

Atsumu stares at him. Intently. Desperate for any other reaction at all.

"You…" Sakusa finally says, his voice so quiet it's practically a whisper. Then he glances up, eyes lit with a fire that's usually reserved for a fist clench after a successful spike. "You're so fucking _stupid._ " He reaches out for Atsumu, quick as a whip. His hand closes behind his neck, not light and fluttering like Atsumu always imagined, but tight and almost a little too hard. None of that matters when he pulls Atsumu into a kiss, an actual fucking kiss, where there's a bare hand on the back of his neck, and _fuck,_ it _is_ cold. And the shoulder that Atsumu is still cupping in his shaking palm is also cool. And the skin is ridiculously soft, so he just _has_ to swipe his thumb across it. To prove that it's real.

It definitely is, because Sakusa's breath does that slight puffing thing that always means he's about to pull away, and sure enough he starts to draw back. _No, no. Don't go,_ Atsumu thinks desperately, and then as if he was thinking the same, Sakusa surges forward again. Atsumu's lip gets caught in the crossfire between Sakusa and his mind, but he doesn't so much as make a sound, too busy reaching out with his other hand to gently grab the other visible shoulder.

When he does, Sakusa breaks the kiss, this time in a more controlled manner. "Stop looming over me," he orders. His face is still completely impassive, and if it weren't for the slightly wet shine on his lower lip, no one would be able to tell what he'd been up to.

"Sucks, doesn't it," Atsumu sneers. "Can't even handle leaning up for once?"

His heart attempts some complicated rhythm at the glare Sakusa shoots him. It still feels a little loose in his chest, from the moment when he realized what that swirl of emotion really was.

Sakusa slides back on the bed, leaving the edge to sit more in the middle. Atsumu follows helplessly, like he's on a string. After a long moment, Sakusa's mouth crumples to the side. He wrinkles his nose like Atsumu just took a shit, and then he shoves his bony thumbs under his waistband and starts kicking off his pants. No sooner are they off and on the floor, than Sakusa curls in on himself, fists buried in his hair and breathing pattern all wrong.

Atsumu pulls back enough to ensure there's no contact between them. Without conscious thought, his hand flies up over his mouth like a shield, just in case. "Hey," he manages, trying desperately to not say anything dickish. "We don't hafta—"

"Do _not,_ " Sakusa says between gritted teeth. "I don't care if you walk out that door and never come back. But do _not_ give me your pity."

"Fuckin' hell. I'm just tryin' to be nice about it."

"Well, don't be." Sakusa raises his head, revealing furrowed brows and a raw animalistic anger that leaves Atsumu almost afraid. He's been in more fistfights with Osamu than he can count, but there's some primal creature in Sakusa's eyes that threatens murder for any misstep. Atsumu thinks it might be especially potent because it's aimed internally.

"I just don't want you pushin' yerself if you don't want this," Atsumu tries.

"I _do_ want it. That's the _problem._ "

"Is there somethin' I can do to help ya—"

"You _piss me off_. You make everyone else feel like a mild irritation in comparison. I think I'd tolerate an allergic reaction better than I tolerate you. Sometimes I think you _give me one._ " Sakusa's right hand slips down from his head and knots into the bedsheets. "The first time I got you off, I thought I'd contracted a new disease. Everything itched, and I couldn't even shower it away. You're _annoying_ and have a shitty personality, but now you have the _nerve_ to try to be _nice?_ " 

Atsumu has no idea what to say. He's been accused of many things, but never of being too nice.

"Has it still not penetrated your thick skull," Sakusa continues, "that once we start, I might not be able to stop."

It absolutely has not. In fact, some form of Sakusa stopping is exactly what Atsumu's been expecting.

"You're so self-centered, rambling about how you think I'm somehow brainwashing you. Don't you realize that's exactly what might happen?"

 _You might brainwash me?_ Atsumu thinks dumbly, but he starts to understand. Sakusa is Sakusa. And Sakusa hates touch and he's convinced he'll catch every sickness under the sun and he sees germs and microbes everywhere he looks. Everything about sex, at least Atsumu's kind of sex, is the antithesis of who Sakusa is. So the guy's afraid that if he gets a taste, it might fundamentally change him forever.

"I don't do things that I don't want to do, Miya."

Atsumu takes it all for the confession that it is. And he respects Sakusa enough that he isn't going to be anything less than himself. "First off. Don't call me 'Miya.'"

"Then don't call me 'Omi.'"

"Can I call you Kiyoomi?"

"Fuck no."

"Then Omi stays."

"Then Miya stays."

Atsumu cringes and gags. "But Samu is _also_ Miya, so you can see why that pisses me off."

"Do _not_ mention your brother when we're about to have sex."

It's like a magic password for Atsumu's brain, yanking him back on track, where Sakusa "Omi-kun" Kiyoomi is currently sitting in his underwear, less protectively curled like he's freaking out, and more just slumped like he's trying to hide the fact that he's very, very hard right now. Which is to say, he _is._

Atsumu's pride gobbles it up.

"Lay down," he says, feeling a little burst of excitement when Sakusa does so. Every movement clearly displays how begrudging he is to follow instructions, but if there's one thing Atsumu is learning from all this, it's that they both like how difficult the other is. "I'm gonna touch ya, but if you think yer about to die or somethin', just lemme know."

"I'll kick you in the face," Sakusa huffs, and his voice sounds almost completely level.

"My face is up here."

"I can reach."

This causes all kinds of images of his freaky, flexible boyfriend to jump around in Atsumu's brain, but he bravely pushes them aside to press his hand down right in the middle of Sakusa's chest.

"Shit— Do you have a fever?" Sakusa asks.

"No, I don't. Yer just freezin'. It's like touchin' a block of ice." It is and it isn't. It's way too soft, for one, and Atsumu is kinda addicted to how smooth Sakusa is, like his skin here has never seen the elements of the outdoors before. It's possible it hasn't. "Do ya swim with a shirt on, Omi-Omi?" he asks.

"Don't be stupid. I don't swim."

"You don't?"

"Where would I— I swim?"

Atsumu uses a fourth of his brain to decide that, yeah, Sakusa would never get near a pool, let alone a lake or the ocean; the other three-fourths are solely dedicated to the way Sakusa hiccuped as Atsumu slid his palm along his ribcage. He should probably be polite and not mention it. But Atsumu is not polite.

"Ticklish?" he asks smugly.

"No. Just…" Sakusa frowns.

"Sensitive?"

"Go to hell."

Atsumu laughs at that. He's always thought of victory as something you steal. It's something you force away from an opponent, and after you do, you walk off and leave them face-down in your dust. But _this_ kind of victory is different, and it feels like they're both finding a way to win. Atsumu can feel it in every swipe of his hand, in the sinew of Sakusa's abdomen. He can see it in the way that Sakusa's legs jump and his knees raise — seemingly without permission, judging by the look of disgust he sends them. And he can hear it in the way that Sakusa's breath picks up, matching Atsumu's even though they're hardly even moving.

Atsumu catches a knee as it tucks up into the air on its own. He glides his other hand along the calf, feeling the soft hair and strong cords of muscle there. Sakusa's mask finally cracks, even if it looks like a grimace, and he hisses between his teeth as his spine curls up and away from the bed. The arch is way higher than Atsumu could ever manage, and he starts thinking about gymnasts with their compact but pliable forms.

"Feel good?" he asks smoothly and gets a harsh elbow to the thigh as his answer.

He lets Sakusa settle, like a cat who's been over-petted, before setting his hands on either side of Sakusa's waist and slipping them up, all the way to his chest. The result is a choked-off grunt that Sakusa suppresses through obstinance alone, even as his feet grip and push on the bed like he's trying to eject himself out from underneath the sensation.

Atsumu senses another freakout coming, and he parries it with more soul-bearing of his own. "Sometimes I imagine that you can feel me through the volleyball. Like every time I touch it to set, you pick up on it when ya hit my toss. I don't actually mind when you get service aces then, 'cause it means yer touch just hits the floor instead of goin' to some random opposing receiver."

He keeps his hands moving, and Sakusa twists and squirms under them like it's torture. His face gives away almost nothing. It's set in a frown, and even the slight sheen on his temples does nothing more than make him look fresh from a casual workout. Atsumu stills his left hand and reaches the right up into Sakusa's hair. It isn't as soft as he expected. It's wiry, with sharp, kinky angles, much like Sakusa himself. It still feels like magic when he takes a clump in his fist and _squeezes_.

Sakusa's hands fly up to grab at Atsumu's. His eyes are tightly shut, and Atsumu almost wonders if he pulled too hard in his enthusiasm. He certainly doesn't apologize, and that must be the right choice because Sakusa's fingers grip at his own hair and tug too, and that's when Atsumu is graced with the sound of an actual groan. It escapes out of Sakusa's throat where, with his head back and his neck bared, he can't really stop it.

"This is… This is so much _worse_ than I expected," Sakusa finally manages to say.

Atsumu gets what he means. It's always more intense when it's someone else, and the guy is so touch-starved he's probably just shy of over-stimulated. There's no fucking way Atsumu's backing down first.

"Givin' up already?" he sneers.

Sakusa just reaches up and grabs him by the neck again, throwing off Atsumu's balance enough to bring him tumbling over. If the point was to kiss, they miss by a mile, but the long stripes of bare chest to bare chest have them both jerking. Atsumu reaches down to adjust himself covertly.

The air leaving Sakusa's throat is coming in pants, and now he's finally covered in enough sweat to make him look like he's finishing a five-set match. He looks like Atsumu's just made him single-handedly score the last ten consecutive points. Or like Atsumu's been using him as a decoy so he has to keep giving his all in every jump and swing.

Staring at him breaks something inside of Atsumu.

Sakusa is fighting to keep his eyes open, so he sees the moment whatever it is passes over Atsumu's face. It draws his eyebrows together again, like he's trying and failing to analyze the meaning of the expression.

Atsumu can't describe it. He feels unstoppable. He feels like calling up Osamu and laughing in his fucking face. He knows that when he's on the court he has an army of monsters at his command, but here, right now, he's kneeling over _the_ Sakusa Kiyoomi, and he's the one calling the shots. Without a setter, there are no tosses to hit. And no matter what Sakusa might say out of prideful bravado, if Atsumu left now, he'd be a wreck.

So that's what the sensation is then.

It's a fucking power trip. 

Atsumu catches an eerily flexible wrist in each of his hands and pushes them to the sheets. He looks for any sign of panic in Sakusa's eyes but only finds an equal challenge. Sprains or pulls be damned, Sakusa flexes up and bucks Atsumu off. They roll over on the bed, Sakusa struggling to get on top. He's got the height advantage, but Atsumu's got a handful of kilograms on him, so he swings with the momentum, and they topple to the floor.

Any second now, Atsumu assumes, Sakusa will freak out about the potential of dirt, especially since he's nearly naked and _plastered between Atsumu_ and _the ground where they walk._ But it seems that a horny Sakusa has no neurons left to consider something as small as a microbe, though Atsumu thinks they need to have discussion about their definitions of "sex," because Sakusa's hands are coming for his _throat._

"Oh no ya don't," he huffs, batting away arms that can hit a ball at 120 kilometers per hour. "I'm in charge this time."

"Then _earn it_ ," Sakusa grunts back.

So Atsumu channels all his desperation into his arms, and while praying that his back won't give out, he hauls Sakusa up and tosses him onto the bed. It's actually more of a drop, because Sakusa never actually leaves his arms and he kinda stumbles as he gets up, but Atsumu is clambering over him, using the wrestling training that inherently comes with having a brother.

Sweat makes Sakusa a slippery bastard, or at least more of one than usual, so he manages to flip onto his front and start to crawl away before Atsumu hauls him back by the thighs. It's just so much _touch_ and he can't get over Sakusa not even caring that they fell off the bed and it fills him with a heady feeling of invincibility that cannot be healthy for either of them.

So when he drops his full weight onto Sakusa's back, he isn't even thinking about the way it might push his very hard dick directly against Sakusa's ass. And he isn't thinking about the way that it might grind Sakusa into the mattress.

But it sure does both of those things.

Sakusa freezes, stiff as a corpse, but when he throws a testy look over his shoulder, it isn't because he wants Atsumu to stop.

"Can I fuck yer thighs?" Atsumu asks abruptly, figuring that if he's come this far, he might as well shoot his shot.

"I don't have lube."

"What?" He's not sure what's more shocking, what he's hearing or the fact that Sakusa didn't reject his request.

"You heard me."

Atsumu gapes at him. "You own every cream and paste under the sun, but ya don't have _lube?_ "

"Don't say 'paste.' That sounds disgusting."

With great difficulty, Atsumu tries to ration some blood back to his brain. "I _know_ ya got lotion."

Sakusa makes a real attempt to roll over. "That's for external use only."

"I said yer _thighs,_ moron. I'm not stickin' anything up yer ass."

"I don't care. That's not its intended purpose."

Atsumu lets out a groan of frustration, then reaches around and under Sakusa to grope at his dick. The moment his palm first makes contact with the outside of those bizarre, moisture-wicking compression shorts, Sakusa makes a sound like he's being electrocuted. His hips buck and nearly throw Atsumu off, but he manages to keep his balance.

"Whudduya know?" Atsumu says with a lazy smirk. "Looks like we don't need any after all. Yer makin' enough of a mess for—" A leg bends up and a heel kicks Atsumu squarely in the spine. He mostly kinda sorta muffles his yelp a bit, and he throws a thigh out to pin Sakusa down better and prevent it from happening again. "I'm gonna roll you onto yer side, okay? Quit whinin'. I'm just warnin' ya in advance."

Sakusa rolls with him, albeit a little stiffly, and for a moment they just lie there.

Spooning Sakusa Kiyoomi is a little like spooning a twisted metal pipe. There are hard joints and pokey angles, and he's way too long and stringy, even with only a few centimeters more on him. He refuses to be pliable, and Atsumu is forced to mold around his stupid curling spine instead. It can't be comfortable. It certainly isn't relaxed.

Atsumu rubs a hand up and down Sakusa's sternum, aiming for a shitty emulation of reassurance before he realizes it'll probably have the opposite effect. Sakusa grabs his wrist and halts the motion. It works less because of the actual gesture and more because Atsumu is embarrassingly affected by the sensation of his fingers.

"Your turn," Sakusa mumbles.

"I…" There's another long pause as Atsumu struggles with his pride again. "I'm thinkin' about yer hands right now. And how I never get to touch them. You can do such crazy things with 'em out on the court, but up close they look almost delicate or somethin'."

Sakusa twists until he can look at Atsumu over his shoulder. "That's disgustingly sappy of you, but I meant it's your turn to lose your pants."

"Oh. R-right," Atsumu stutters, fighting the humiliated flush that's already creeping its way up his neck. "Uh… Just so we're clear. I'm not wearin' anything else under here."

Sakusa tenses up immediately. "You're not?"

"I can leave 'em if that bothers you."

"No. I just can't believe you. I hope you wash those well."

"How is it any different than gettin' my boxers dirty?"

"It's the principle," Sakusa sniffs.

"And here I'd thought you'd support the benefits of air circulation."

"Are you always like this during sex?"

"Yer welcome to find out."

Sakusa actually gives a little snort at that, laying on his side again and relaxing his grip on Atsumu's wrist. "Don't get ahead of yourself. You've yet to impress me _this_ time."

"Famous last words." Atsumu fumbles to push down his sweats with the arm he's been using to prop his head up, then kicks them off the foot of the bed. "Yer doin' surprisingly well with this though. Considering."

"No pity," Sakusa warns, but Atsumu bulldozes through the complaint.

"Nah, I mean, I'd've thought all this sweat would freak you out." He presses his sticky chest against Sakusa's back by way of explanation, carefully keeping his hips away from making any contact.

"Sweat isn't dirty. It's cleansing. How would I become a professional athlete if I couldn't handle sweat?"

"I dunno. That's why I was askin'."

"It's not sweat, it's just _germs._ Now please…" Atsumu actually thinks he's trying to squirm away again, but then Sakusa's hand appears, holding his weird sporty briefs, and he flings them across the room.

The feeling before a match-starting serve is indescribable. It's a mixture of the stab of anxious excitement, the sensation of time running out, and the pride of being the center of attention. It makes Atsumu want to holler, laugh, cry, and maybe throw up all at once. It's the same feeling he's getting now, spooning naked in Sakusa's bed in his frigid apartment with only one bedsheet.

Atsumu imagines the tweet of a whistle in his mind, imagines taking one, two, three, four steps. And then he slowly floats his head up to peek over Sakusa.

"Stop staring," Sakusa grumbles. That hint of a flush is finally back, but this time Atsumu can see how it travels down, putting some actual color on his chest.

"I'm not.

"Yes, you are."

"Yeah, I am." Atsumu reaches down to wrap his hand loosely around Sakusa's cock. "Can ya blame me?"

Sakusa blows out a surprising amount of air, noticeably deflating under Atsumu's arm. Then he starts to shake, light tremors that have Atsumu letting go as fast as he can.

"Don't _stop_ , you… you…" It isn't often that Sakusa is at a loss for words. This only fuels Atsumu's ego further.

"I thought you were panicking."

"Stop taking every little reaction as _panic_ and just… just…" Sakusa bats his hand away, blatantly contradicting his previous order, but he's reaching behind them both to grope for Atsumu's hips, squeezing the skin there as he grinds his own back.

"Oh, _fuck_ ," Atsumu groans. He grinds forward, reveling in the sensation of soft skin. He palms Sakusa's ass, even though all it gets him is a grumble. His fingers slide into that small pocket between Sakusa's thighs and they skim against his balls, just as prissy and uptight as the rest of him. "Shit, this is gonna be good."

He takes Sakusa's cock back, and this time he gives it a firm stroke.

" _Softer, softer,_ " Sakusa hisses out. "This isn't arm wrestling."

No, it sure as hell isn't, and hey, if Sakusa's a fan of a feather-light touch, Atsumu can work with it. He ghosts his palm along the underside, taps the tip with a finger and lifts it to watch the string of precum stretch and snap. He stops holding up his head and rests it on Sakusa's shaking shoulder so he can thread his arm underneath the guy's neck. "Open up," Atsumu says, poking at the hard set of his mouth.

Sakusa bites him instead.

" _Ow!_ You evil, toothy _shit_ ," Atsumu swears, and in retaliation he uses his aching hand to grip around Sakusa's sinewy throat, forcing his head back. The smirk painted on Sakusa's face is as infuriating as it is scorchingly hot, and Atsumu can't help himself. He keeps his right hand moving, trailing barely-there touches along Sakusa's cock and thighs that would be torture to the average man, but Atsumu grips his jaw with his left and lowers his head to trail wet kisses on the exposed expanse of neck.

"If… If you leave a mark, I'll… kill you," Sakusa manages to say. His hand tells a different story, reaching behind him to fist in Atsumu's hair and anchor him close.

Atsumu trails relatively gentle bites along the muscles that lead down to Sakusa's powerful shoulders. Then he licks his way back up the path. "Yeah?" he goads, still lazily jerking him off and rubbing his tip with the pad of his thumb. When his fingers have collected some of the drips there, Atsumu wipes them at the apex of Sakusa's thighs. He doesn't even bother to hide his smugness as he drawls, "Hold tight. Literally," in Sakusa's ear. He nips the lobe at the same time that he angles his cock into the gap, pushing inside the semi-slick warmth with what is probably a very loud groan at this proximity.

After a beat of silence, during which the shaking starts up once more, Atsumu realizes what's going on. "Hey. You gotta breathe, idiot. Yer gonna pass out."

Sakusa inhales desperately and the tremors subside. His face looks like he's either constipated with a volleyball-sized shit or he's being repeatedly sneezed on by a stranger.

"Ya know," Atsumu says after he gives an exploratory thrust and sees Sakusa's lungs freeze again, "it's okay to have fun. Make a little noise."

"J-just _shut. Up._ "

Atsumu readjusts his legs to give himself better leverage. When he finally picks up speed, he could cry. Never has he felt such affection for their workout routines, but now that he's got his miserably hard cock clamped between Sakusa's vice-like thighs, he's ready to pray at the shrine of wall-sits and squats. 

Sakusa's head lolls forward out of Atsumu's grasp. He presses his forehead to the sheet and twists his upper torso.

Atsumu follows the movement, rolling with him until he's practically on top of the guy. The new position makes it impossible to keep jerking Sakusa off, and worse, his view is now just the jagged outcropping of vertebrae and a few scattered moles that beg him to kiss them. Not that he will. Atsumu still doesn't do romantic shit like that. Instead he gets in a few more hard thrusts before slapping Sakusa's flank, with more force than necessary. "Flip on yer back. I can't see you like this."

Sakusa doesn't move. He just continues panting face-down into the bed and releases his death-grip on the sheets to shoot him the finger.

Rolling his eyes, Atsumu scoots back and wraps his arms around Sakusa's knees. It's harder than expected, but he manages to get the torque necessary to twist him over. He expects to get a glare like a cat in a bathtub, but the reality is much more powerful.

Sakusa's eyelids droop low like he can't expend the energy to open them up. He's red in the face, redder than he's ever been at practice or a tournament. His jaw is relaxed for once and sweat slips down it like an advertisement for a cold beer. There are actual teeth prints in the sheets which show that a) Sakusa's still holding his noises in like a selfish asshole, and b) Sakusa has scarily sharp canines so Atsumu should be glad he didn't tear open his fingers when he bit him earlier.

Stunned silent, Atsumu lifts Sakusa's twitching legs and slides his cock back into place. He drapes them over his shoulder at the knees and hugs them close with one hand. He returns the other to Sakusa's cock, doing his best to keep his touches soft even though everything in him wants to go fast and rough to _see_ the reaction he gets. He's reaching the end of his own patience, and he can't help but shake the idea that he's been enduring low-levels of edging for months now, at least when it comes to indulging in touch like this.

"'S good, right?" Atsumu asks, and he hates that his tone misses "preening" by a mile and ends up sounding very insecure.

"It's okay," says Sakusa, and his voice is deep and raw in a way that makes Atsumu _need_ to kiss him.

He bends forward to do so, waiting for resistance from Sakusa's hips, but it never comes. Sakusa folds in half like the accordion elbow of a straw, until his mouth is finally in range of Atsumu's own. He leans down to kiss him, ignoring his newfound fear of razor-sharp teeth to push his tongue in. They're practically sharing air now, and this may go against everything Sakusa has ever preached about, but they're sloppily making out and Atsumu is probably drooling into his mouth and neither of them are willing to stop.

Atsumu can't reach Sakusa's cock again, but that's okay because he's probably grinding on his own thighs as Atsumu fucks into him on complete autopilot. He holds himself over Sakusa on one elbow and uses his free hand to steer his jaw to a better angle. 

The first time Sakusa lets out a grunt, he instinctively holds his breath afterward. Atsumu mumbles, "Uh uh. Breathe, Omi-Omi," into his lips and pushes in to swallow the next sound. The noises flow freer then, like Sakusa's lost the strength to keep them in any longer, and the matching pressure that's growing in Atsumu's abdomen is doing its damndest to match him one-for-one.

Atsumu breaks the kiss to warn him, but the way Sakusa's voice cracks on a moan derails his train of thought. Helplessly, Atsumu can only watch as his own hand grips Sakusa's jaw, unbidden, indenting his cheeks and opening his mouth just a little wider. Sakusa lets go of the bed to hold Atsumu's arm. He's not removing it. Just holding it there, like he needs the support for once.

Without letting go, Atsumu readjusts and dips two of his fingers into Sakusa's mouth. It's easy this time. No resistance. Time stretches out, thick and stringy, and Atsumu's head spins. He sees, as if in slow-motion, his own pistoning hips and Sakusa's shaking legs, still pressed flat to his chest. He takes in the way Sakusa's knuckles are white in his clutching grip, and the way his normally pinched mouth looks when it's closed around Atsumu's fingers. He presses down on the cleanest tongue in the country, hell, in the _world,_ and soaks up the punched-out sounds Sakusa is huffing out.

Atsumu wishes he could hold them here forever. Fuck practice. Fuck the upcoming games. Fuck even going to get food or water. He wants to hang onto this moment, this turning-point, where he's allowed to touch as much skin as he wants and where Sakusa trusts him enough to hand him the control he's always kept so closely guarded.

But he can't. So instead he begs the universe to grant him this opportunity again.

Sakusa's spine arches, looking almost painful, and he angles his head as far back as he can without losing Atsumu's fingers. His eyes are squeezed shut, but his eyebrows are tilted high on his forehead, and Atsumu thinks, _This is what Sakusa Kiyoomi looks like when he comes._ He thinks, _Shit, is this really what it's like to be in love?_

And then Sakusa's eyes flicker open and he bites down, _definitely_ drawing blood this time.

Atsumu comes as if on command, and while his head screams, _I think I love you I love you I love you,_ his mouth blurts out the most affectionate, "You absolute _bastard_ ," he can manage.

* * *

Sakusa Kiyoomi has no respect for a guy's afterglow.

Whatever power his horny brain was using to let him ignore the general uncleanliness of sex is gone the moment his orgasm is. 

Atsumu is still very much out of breath when Sakusa practically flies off the bed to rinse his mouth out, and while he gets a spark of pride at the way that Sakusa's legs wobble like a newborn deer's, he's also left sweaty and a little chilled on the desolate landscape of the bed.

"Hey," he says once he's followed Sakusa to the bathroom. "Ya good?"

Sakusa huffs around his furious toothbrushing and doesn't really answer. He jerks his head toward the shower and gives an incredibly stern glare before Atsumu can even joke about sharing it. The water runs for almost ten minutes. When Sakusa comes back out, it's only to order Atsumu in after him. Atsumu sighs. He'd already figured that'd be the case.

He leaves the door open so he can yell out into the hallway. "Not awful, huh? Maybe kinda fun? Somethin' you'd be fine doin' again?"

If Sakusa replies, it isn't audible over the echoing spray.

Atsumu towels off and leaves the bathroom completely naked. In the time he's been gone, Sakusa has stripped down his bed and replaced all his blankets and clean sheets. It looks as if nothing ever happened, if not for the plastic bags holding the dirty linen and what appears to be both of their clothes. Atsumu's not sure why his shirt's in there. It's not like it was in the splash zone.

"Omi-kun?" Atsumu tries one more time as he pulls on the clothes he first came in, trying not to let terror turn him vicious and cruel for the sake of his pride.

Sakusa glances up from the mask he's unfolding and _tsks_ once. He snaps the elastic behind his ears and walks out to the living room, gait not quite normal yet. Atsumu follows, feeling like a puppy begging for attention. Sakusa sits on his side of the couch and Atsumu sits on his, and then, miracle of miracles, Sakusa beckons him over with a jerk of his thumb and an exasperated sigh.

For his part, Atsumu basically launches across the furniture, but then he's sitting there, clothed thigh to clothed thigh and holding Sakusa's outstretched arm in his hands. There's a mole on the defined, flexing tricep, and Atsumu presses a kiss to it before he can stop himself.

Sakusa's mouth curls in a mocking smirk, and Atsumu buries his face in his fists in shame from being caught out as a sap.

"It wasn't bad," says Sakusa, pulling Atsumu from his self-flagellating spiral. "You weren't as terrible as I expected."

It's practically a five-star review.

"I told ya you'd have no complaints," Atsumu brags. "As for you, I'm just shocked ya didn't try to kill and eat me afterward like a praying mantis." He's on top of the world again.

"Hmm. I'm still thinking it over." Sakusa points at the remote on the table. "Pass that to me."

"Get it yerself."

The glare is back, at home on Sakusa's face like he's an exception to the rule of it taking fewer muscles to smile than to frown. "I think I may have pulled something in my hip."

"Old man," Atsumu spits, but he reaches out and grabs it anyway, though he'll be damned if he lets Sakusa pick what they're watching now. Normally he'd call bullshit on Sakusa's worrying, just like he always does when he watches the guy tape up imagined injuries or wear a splint on a wrist the medic proclaimed to be fine or when he mentions his psychosomatic peanut allergy. But this time he might have a valid concern, since Atsumu really was a little too taken with how bendy he is. "Sorry 'bout yer hip though."

"I'll allow you your rather self-centered loss of control," Sakusa says, superiority dripping from his words. "But I don't want it to happen next time." There's a hint of color, just on the tips of his ears, and that's what gives him away. _Next time._

Atsumu grins, lazy and smarmy and everything Sakusa claims to hate but clearly doesn't. And if his obnoxious comeback happens to choke and die in his throat when Sakusa interlaces their fingers, well, that's just because he's been conditioned to shut up sometimes.

**Author's Note:**

> i literally had to finish this tonight because it's fucking with my academics, and i am NOT losing my place on the dean's list because of a MIYA TWIN
> 
> anyway, please come yell with me on twitter [@newttxt](https://twitter.com/newttxt) where i keep drawing these two idiots  
> (though if ur a minor, i politely request that we not discuss the nsfw parts...)


End file.
